I went this afternoon to pay a visit to my neighbour Ephraim; indeed I find his cheerful fire-side so much more pleasant than my own little solitary dwelling, that I am afraid I go there rather too often; however, as yet I have not remarked any coldness or distance in their reception of me. Ephraim had been a little indisposed, and I found him reclining on the sofa; his wife was preparing something comfortable for him by the fire, and his daughter, having arranged his pillow to his mind, sat with her work at his feet, while Ezekiel read to him--his other son was engaged in superintending the business of the farm; but when the hour of tea approached, he joined the circle in the parlour with a smiling countenance, cheeks glowing with health, and an appetite which appeared in no wise diminished by the exercise of the day. When I returned to my own lonely habitation, I could not avoid contrasting a little my situation with that of my old friend. Happy Ephraim! said I, thou hast an excellent wife and dutiful daughter, to smooth the pillow of thy aching head, to hover with feathery footsteps around thy peaceful couch, and watch over thy slumbers with the assiduity of anxious love--thou hast two manly intelligent sons, to attend to thy business, to protect thy interests, and support thy tottering steps; whose only strife is that of kindness, whose only rivalship, which shall be most attentive to thee, each of whom would gladly say with the poet, Me, may the gentle office long engage To rock the cradle of reposing age.-- And when at last, in a good old age, thou shalt be gathered to thy fathers, a train of mourning relatives shall deposit with decent care thy cherished remains in the narrow house appointed for all living; while I stand alone in the world, an insulated, insignificant being, for whom no one feels an interest, and whose pains and pleasures are of consequence to no one; whose approach is greeted with no smile, and whose departure excites no regret, and when the closing scene approaches, no kindred hand shall support my throbbing temples, or prepare the potion for my feverish lip, but mercenary eyes alone mark with ill disguised impatience the uncertain flutter of the lingering pulse, mercenary attendants only receive, with frigid indifference, the last farewell of the departing spirit-- "By strangers' hands my dying eyes be clos'd, "By strangers' hands my lifeless limbs compos'd."